gone the next
by closeincline
Summary: All countries experience changes and growth over decades and centuries. This applies to what they represent as well as who they are as physical manifestations. Rampant headcanon, genderbending everywhere, kinda crack. USxUK with others along the side.
1. 1912

Prologue

As the personifications of nations, they had never been bound to the laws that grounded most physical beings. As their nations and land masses lived, so too did they. And as their nation changed, so too did their bodies, shifting through centuries; through depressions, famines, war, economic booms and empires. They were ever changing.

This extended to all aspects of their lives. It could affect their personalities, their ways of expression, their body's size and their gender. They might grow smaller with age, or larger. They would become stronger or weaker. They would wake male one morning and female the next, all depending on the mood of their people.

England, 1912

America hauled her bag out of the car that had brought her there, paid the driver, and headed to the door of the manor house. She wound her way up through the garden path under the warm and pleasant sun. Her hat kept the sun off her shoulders, but her dress was still warm. She made her way to the door, and set down her suitcase to extend a gloved hand to ring the door bell. After a few tries and no answer, she huffed. England's Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost was in the drive way, it's not as if England could have gone anywhere. Well, if England wasn't hearing the bell, perhaps the house was empty, but the garden was occupied?

She descended the steps to the door and took the path around the house to the back gardens. The sun floated beautifully on it, and butterflies flitted from bush to bush in the afternoon sun. It looked like a perfect dream. Then again, England always kept the most beautiful gardens.

As America made her way down the path, she finally spotted England, kneeling among the herb garden. Excited, America called out.

"England!"

England stood, startled, and quickly brushed her hands off on the apron she wore over her plain, light cotton dress. Her hair was rebelliously beginning to come loose from her bun that rested under the wide brimmed straw hat she wore. She quickly reached up to try and tuck it back up, and she looked thoroughly flustered.

So maybe America hadn't been invited in the strictest sense.

"America!" England said, and began bustling towards her, still trying to get the dirt off her hands. "Whatever are you doing here dear?" she asked as she walked down the path towards her.

"Well, I was getting frightfully lonesome, and I thought it was high time you invited me over for a visit. You must know how dreadfully disappointed I was when you didn't. Anyways darling, I managed to get though it and realized how busy you must have been to have forgotten me. Poor dear! So I spared you the trouble and the postage on an invitati0n and invited myself. You may thank me whenever you catch your breath." America said in hardly more than a single breath, putting her hands on her hips and grinning as if quite satisfied with herself.

"America!" England started to chide. But they were finally next to each other on the path, and America pulled her into an embrace. England was helpless but to return it.

"America, you know better than to do something like that. Have you no manners? You're simply incorrigible." England said, shaking her head. America just chuckled.

"Oh deary, you know that whatever I knew better than, I very seldom decide to do it. Now, shall we sit somewhere and have something cold to drink? I am positively spent from all that travel darling, you have no idea."

She knew it would annoy England that she had not only invited herself but then also offered herself something to drink, but what was she to do? It wasn't her fault England was a miserable host and had no idea when to offer a woman something to drink.

England simply sighed.

"Well come along then. Shall we go in? I suppose I shall have to finish that up later…" she said wistfully looking over her shoulder at the garden.

"Yes yes, the garden can wait." America said, as England let them into the back of the house, and to the kitchen. "There's much more exciting things to talk about, other than your garden." England looked over her shoulder again and huffed as she led America down the hall while America spoke. "Although, I must say the peonies in the front are coming in beautifully." America added, her earlier haughty tone abandoned for a softer, lighter one.

"Do you think so?" England asked mildly, but America could tell she was thrilled to have the compliment.

America wasn't sure why she needed it. They all knew her gardens were simply the best.

America loved her own garden, but it was more of a practical affair.

They reached the kitchen, and England turned to her.

"Well, what should you like to drink?" She asked and then began taking out glasses.

"Oh a gin and tonic would do me wonders I believe."

England snorted quietly.

"I suppose the afternoon's as good a time to start as any." And she went to the liqueur cabinet.

"Oh, you'll have one two won't you dear?" America asked lightly.

"Well, naturally," England answered. "It simply wouldn't be hospitable of me to allow you to drink alone." America saw she was grinning.

If it wasn't three o'clock, and they were going for drinks somewhere in the city instead of the small table beneath England's magnolia tree, America suspects they would try to drink the other under the table.

After pouring the drinks and adding little lemon (England spoiled her, really. Then again, she always had) they went on back outdoors.

America loved afternoons spent like this, in lovely weather, with lovely people and a bit of drink in her. Well really, she knew how to have a good time without the drink, it was England who needed it to be able to loosen up.

And so they sat in the afternoon shade of the tree, and England commented on her dress, and America happily informed her it was the very latest, and she had left out from New York and simply couldn't help herself. England chuckled and wished her the best of it.

England caught her up a bit more on what had been happening in Europe, and some other details of her experiences since America's last visit, and America gave her own.

They were comfortable that way, and so much more so than they had been, that America was quite pleased with herself for having decided to stop by. Things with them had been getting better steadily; decade by decade they began to trust more and more. It was hard to think a century ago England and America had been in a little war. But a century was plenty of time for that sort of thing to cool down. And there they sat, nicely together, and America secretly felt hopeful.


	2. 1711

Hey there! Some people read the last chapter, but I didn't hear anything from you guys, so if you have something to say about this, please let me know. I am worried it doesn't make sense, or is too weird, etc. Any ways. Please enjoy!

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><p>Atlantic Ocean, 1711<p>

England paused from the maps she had been poring over that covered her desk to look over her shoulder at America. It had been awfully quiet for some time, and she hadn't really noticed until that moment as she had been trying to concentrate. He had been asking her questions, seemingly whatever came into his mind, since she had allowed in him the cabin after lunch.

She had brought him with her so that she might teach him more about the sea, since it was America's lands she was hoping to protect in this expedition.

And now there he lay, asleep on her bed, the book laying beside him.

"Bless him, the poor lad's fast asleep." She said quietly to herself, shaking her head as she stood from her desk.

Sunlight fell through one of the small windows that she was allowed, as Captain, to have in her cabin. The room shone with it, and it fell on America too.

She paused in her movement towards him, simply stopped and looked at him. He was breathtaking to her that way, he looked to small and helpless, yet still so pure and undefiled somehow.

"My beautiful little boy." She whispered, and then covered him with her blankets, placing the book gently on the floor by her bed. She brushed the hair from his face, and let him sleep.

Later that evening, after the sun had set and night had nearly fallen, a sailor knock on her cabin door. She sighed, and looked to America to make sure he hadn't been woken. He stirred, but simply rolled over.

She opened the door.

"Captain," He said, and saluted, "A French schooner's been spotted of the north horizon. Shall we try and take her?" A schooner was a smaller vessel, ideal for moving work that would require speed as they had a keen windward ability.

England felt a fire ignite within her. Ah, the thrill of the chase.

"That is certainly what his Majesty would wish us to do." she replied, and tried to keep that wolfish look from her face.

French privateers, who favoured schooners for vessels, had been sailing from Arcadia and endangering the Colonies and British vessels. She needed no better reason, nor could she think of one, for which to capture French ships.

Ah, there was nothing like theft and murder for God and King.

Well, God, King and County. But doing what she thought was best for her was rarely much trouble at all. In fact, she had always done as she pleased.

"Very well, set course man! We've not a moment to waste! No doubt if they've seen us they will either be making battle ready or fleeing like the dogs they are! Go!" she ordered, and returned to her cabin.

She quickly grabbed her belt which hung from the back of her chair, with her two flintlocks in the holsters. Next she slid her rapier into place, grabbed her coat from its hook, and briefly cast about from something to tie her hair back with, but, finding nothing, she gave up. Since it had been evening, she'd preparing for bed and had let it loose for the day. Well, it was of little consequence, not when there were Frenchmen to hold at gun point.

On her way out the door she saw little America and paused. She sighed. Quickly she doubled back, gave him a kiss on the forehead and said "Sleep soundly, little one," before she was off.

Out on the deck, she saw they were making good speed. Heading to the quarterdeck, she met the first mate.

"Well Clark? What have we got?" she asked him.

"Well, a French schooner, four masts, probably about sixty to seventy persons on board, but she's with cargo given her speed. Although she's spotted us, she makes no move to run."

England held out her hand for the looking class, and held it to her eye. She saw flurries of activity aboard the ship. They were preparing for battle. She was almost thrumming with the expectation of it.

"Very well Clark. We need all men to their stations. See it done." She said curtly.

Not moments later, the ship was buzzing, all men at their cannons.

She descended from the quarterdeck to the bark out her orders.

"All men to your stations. Prepare a boarding party! I mean to take her and everything she's got lads!" The pistols and swords for the boarding party were brought up, and all men were readying themselves.

England supposed as Captain, she might be a little more aloof for the dirtiest of the fighting, but oh how she lived for it, and it wasn't as if any of these dogs were something she could take. She was the best shot, and the quickest blade of all these scoundrels, and they knew it.

"Steady on lads, let her fire on us once first before we let her have it!"

They were in a warship, and their canons would be longer range and better. If they French vessel initiated the conflict, not only were they guiltless, but they would also still probably win.

Sure enough, the first fire of a ball at them came, and landed not too far off.

"Alright lads… steady!" she waited for just a moment more, they needed to be the perfect position. "Ready…Fire!" and with a satisfying crack, the canons blasted. One of the shots fell true, and landed in a spray of wood and men amongst their deck.

England smiled.

"Well done! Reload!" She barked. They were drawing closer, and she would want to board them.

A few shots later, and they were almost broadside each other. England pulled out the looking glass from her belt and tried to survey more closely the state of their ship. They had landed a hit or two, and they were men fighting to repair the damage to the mizzenmast and some of the lines.

And then through her glass she spotted him; France, the frog himself, captain of his own ship, scurrying about trying to repair the emergency damages.

Now she was grinning. Oh, it was as if this day couldn't get any better.

They were finally close enough for her to call out an engagement.

"This is the Captain of the HMS Albion." She yelled over the din. She saw France's head shoot up, he knew her voice. "We are requesting permission to board, so that you might prove you have no stolen goods aboard."

He fixed her with a steely glare. When he answered her, he answered in French. They did this regularly, England would never deem to speak French, even thought her comprehension was sufficient, and France would do the same. He knew she could understand, and he would much rather insult her in French. He said it sounded better.

"And that permission is not granted. We have nothing here, and there is no way I would give you permission bitch." He called back. Many of his crew laughed, while England own, the few who had seen enough in their own day to understand a French insult or two, stiffened.

"Easy boys." She said to calm them. Odds were they weren't aware that was France, and thought him just some French captain. They all knew who she was; if they didn't they would never have let her set foot on the ship. But France, as a man, could have been anyone, and they probably had no idea, since they almost never interfered with words crossed between countries.

In an answer, she pulled one of her pistols from her belt and shot the hat off his head. A few member of her crew whooped in triumph at the shot, It was a risky shot, but when it was risking between being showy and shooting his hat off, or missing and shooting him in the face, she wasn't too concerned.

"Very well frog!" She yelled heartily. To her own crew she said, "Alright then lads, boarding party over!"

France yelled to his men in retaliation, instructing them to prepare to fight off the boarding party and see if they couldn't over take them.

Chaos descended as the fighting broke out, the men now on each other's ships. Swords flashed and guns rang out. England was intent on getting to France as soon as she could. But there was a fair few French sailors who dared cross her, to try and keep her from France, who was fighting off several of her boys.

Someone came at her from behind, and she drew her rapier, and engaging him with easy. Then one of his mates joined in, and she was more detained. She growled in frustration. She didn't have time for this; it was the frog she wanted.

Then she heard a loud laugh from behind her, France's heartless laugh, and felt her first twinge of concern. She turned, and behind her stood America, a rapier in hand. Her heart dropped.

"Leave her alone!" he shouted at them. He looked so frightened but also fierce. And he was holding the rapier incorrectly. Dear lord.

The French sailors looked momentarily stunned, but she saw France come up behind America, cackling madly.

"Well what have we here England? Did you bring our little America along with you for the sport of it?" he said, moving up behind America.

At the same time as a shout of "No!" broke through her throat, France pulled out one of his own pistols.

"France?" America asked, turning to look at him, his eyes wide. France smiled down at him.

"Hello my little America." He said, at the same time going to raise one of the pistols to America's head. Seeing his goal of movement, England elbowed one of the men in the jaw while simultaneously kneeing another in the groin to get them out of her way. And so at the exact moment France brought the pistol to America's temple, she had hers aimed between his eyes.

So she stared down the barrel of her gun at France, while America looked up at her, his eyes wide with fear.

"France…" she said warningly.

They both knew America had never been killed before. Or rather, his body had never sustained mortal damage. England wouldn't have it.

They stood, so tensely, and she realized that many of the sailors had ceased in their fighting to watch them.

Then slowly, ever so slowly, America reached out one little hand and grabbed her shift. Her eyes didn't leave France, but she felt America.

"America, why did you leave my cabin." She hissed, still locking eyes with France. He was still looking triumphant. He knew he had hit a nerve.

"B-because, I heard the guns, and I thought you might be in trouble…" he said, he voice shaking. She sighed.

"Well, I wasn't before, but now I am." She said, and pressed her gun a little harder into France's face for emphasis.

"Surrender your ship, England." France said.

"I would rather die." She spat back.

"Ah, but would you rather he dies my dear?"

"What?" America said shrilly. England had hoped he didn't understand enough French to know what France was saying.

"France, stop it. Leave him out of this." She had a plan, it was coming. Maybe if she could get France talking, she might kick his feet out from under him.

"I would leave him out, but see what he does to you? I could never have done this to you; you would have simply risked the shot."

"Well then give me the shot, and leave him alone."

"Where's the pleasure in that?"

"It is always pleasure for you, where is your propriety? Where is-" she started, when a blur from the corner of her eye stopped her.

"America!"

Something ran into France and England yelled, as France accidentally pulled the trigger but he missed from losing his balance.

"What were you doing!" someone cried, and England saw Canada, holding America, both of them on the on the deck.

"Canada?" England and France said in unison.

"You could have killed each other" He yelled at them. "And you could have killed him!" Canada yelled at France. England could see they were both shaking. They were too young for this.

England knocked the gun from France's hand while he was looking at Canada, and then grabbed his wrist as he instinctively reached out to pull out his other one.

He struggled for a moment, but she wasn't paying attention to him, she had turned her eyes to America and Canada.

"Get inside. Both of you. Canada, go to France's cabin. America, get out of my sight." She said. They leapt up immediately. She could see tears on their faces and they hugged one another, and but they didn't leave.

She turned her glare back to France.

"Oh, I could happily see you dead, you vile piece of filth."

"Oh I assume you the feeling is mutual my dear."

"You could have shot him!"

"Hm." France said.

In a flash she grew her rapier. It was time to remind that bastard what she was capable of.

"Wait!" She was startled when Canada yelled. She noted that he spoke to her in English in contrast to France.

"Please!" he said, coming forward again, America along with him. "Please don't hurt him!" England looked down at him, frustrated.

France on the other hand, softened. He shook England off of him and held his arms out to Canada.

"There there my little one. She's not to scary that papa can't handle her, no?" he picked Canada up, and held him close. America came close to her sides, and she wasn't sure what that look on his face was, but it wasn't pleasant. He clung to her coat.

She rolled her eyes.

"This was a wretched idea," she said to no one in particular then looking to France she said "We shouldn't have brought them with us. I don't care what they think, we still have business to attend to. I know you have stolen goods on that ship."

France shrugged.

"That is war my dear. I will not give them back over to you, nor will I give you y ship. Not without a fight. I think I have stolen it fair a square."

"Do you honestly expect me to let you out of my sight with things that rightfully belong to the Crown? You can think again frog, there no way-"

"And what should we do hm? Will you run me through with that," he said indicated her rapier, "while I am holding him?" France asked knowing already his answer.

She sheathed her weapon.

"Get off my goddamned ship." She said, before storming to her cabin, American still clinging to her coat tails. As soon as the door was closed she rounded on him.

"What the hell were you thinking?" she hissed. Immediately he started to cry again.

"I just- I just wanted to h-help!" he wailed. "I thought you were in trouble, those bad men were gunna-gunna hurt you!"

Her anger flared further.

"No, America, they were going to hurt _you_!" she said, leaning down so she was level with him. "Don't you understand, I can protect myself, and I would have been fine! It's you who was in trouble, and if it hadn't been for you I would have been fine!" she yelled in return. He cried louder.

"I just wanted-" he heaved a sob "wanted to s-save you! Like a knight! Like from your stories!" He sobbed a few more times, not being able to calm himself down enough to speak. "I wanted to save you like a hero does!"he cried.

"Well you can't! You aren't big enough America! You can't save any one, and the only reason I brought you was so that you might learn how to protect yourself when I'm not here! For the love of God America, you only made the situation worse. I don't know what France might have done! This isn't a game America, and you have to understand that!" she yelled, then took a deep breath. America was nearly hysterical.

She took a few more breaths, to reign in her temper.

"America." She said, no longer yelling. She placed her hands on his shaking shoulders and he looked up to meet her gaze, his eyes red and watery. "I am only angry because I didn't know what was going to happen to you, and I would have been angry at myself for not keeping you safe." She put a hand under his chin, lifted his face. "And I only do that because I love you. Promise you will be more careful in the future." He looked at her stubbornly, his face set.

"I promise."

She eyed him speculatively for a moment, wondering what that look was for.

"And I promise that one day I will be big enough that I won't be a burden to you." He said, his looking almost unfamiliar in its sudden change. He was no longer the bawling child, but something else entirely. She brushed off her misgivings. "I promise one day you won't have to keep me safe, but I will be able to keep you safe."

She chuckled.

"Very well America," she said, because he looked so determined she didn't want to put him down by saying she couldn't imagine how that would ever happen and she ruffled his hair, "I look forward to it."

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><p>And that you for reading! Let me know what you think, reviews are always appreciated. :)<p> 


	3. 1917

France, 1917

England screamed as the bullet ripped through him. Centuries of being shot at and one never quite gets accustomed to it. He fell, knowing the enemy line was close.

"Fuck." He muttered. He tried to rise again, and screamed once more as pain shot through him. They German soldiers were advancing, and he couldn't move, he'd be taken, if he was a human he'd be dead, God…here he lay, in blood and mud, waiting to be captured, with a bullet through his middle, his men dead around him, dead by the hundreds. He sobbed once, tried to rise again, and screamed once more as the pain torn through him.

Then he felt a hand on his shoulder.

"Hey, shh, shh." A voice cooed from behind him, as arms wrapped around him. "It's okay."

That voice…

"America?" he whispered hoarsely. He was gently pulled upright.

"Shh, yes, it's me."

"How are you here…?"

"I'm here to save you."

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><p>Ahh! I hope that's not too dark... poor England, how's that for irony eh buddy? Any ways, I just thought I needed to point out that a lot of the things that America does, and that England has to deal with from him are things he is responsible for...<p>

So what do you guys think? I really hope this isn't mad confusing. If so feel free to ask about it :)

Thanks for reading! And thanks for my anon reviewer from last chapter!


	4. 1953

Ladies and gentle folk, our next chapter... by the way, no coherent time line on these, they just come as they come... God I hope they make sense... by the way, any one wanna beta for me? ; w ;

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><p>America, 1953<p>

England got off the bus where it stopped on the narrow road, got his case out, and began hauling it as the bus pulled away from the side of the road. In the middle of nowhere, in the heat of the summer, it was one of America's houses that England didn't really understand. The narrow and winding country road that they had taken to get there had barely seemed safe.

Normally England didn't come to this house. It was secluded, surrounded by smatterings of little forests and bigger fields with their corn and wheat already tall. Ever since America was a child, England had always been enamored with how rich the land was. But this area was far from most other civilization, aside from a few other farm houses, and America only came here when he was trying to hide.

England was only coming here because America had invited him over to visit, then apparently forgot and left his house in New York, which was where he was supposed to meet England when he arrived. He only knew to come here because he had finally contacted Canada, ever his brother's keeper, and asked where he might find him.

Which brought him to the Midwest (to be honest he didn't know what state he was in anymore), walking down a dirt road between a field and a patch of woods under a blazing August sun. The afternoon was slow feeling, and there was no breeze or movement. Crickets chirped from the grass along the drive, and mourning doves cooed overhead.

In an odd way, England was slowly seeing why America might come here. There was a peace to it, a pervading sense of stillness that granted it a restful feeling.

All the same, it didn't mean he wasn't still furious that America had forgotten him and left him to fend for himself. And now England was sweating in his slacks and button up shirt trying to haul his case down a dirt road he hoped was the drive to America's house.

All nations had multiple houses in as many areas as they pleased. Arthur one had a London house, a manor house and a cottage in the country, and several places to stay besides.

Finally, a little shack came into view. Well, he didn't know what else to call it but a shack. It was well kept, but a shack none the less. It was painted white, with a tin roof and a front porch with two chairs on it. There was a small vegetable garden right beside it, as well as some flowers planted along its sides. As soon as the house was visible, the music came to his ears also. It was something on the radio, maybe Billie Holiday?

Finally England made it to the front porch, the steps and boards creaking under his feet as he ascended them. The wood was old and dusty, and upon closer inspection, he could see that the chairs were roughly made. England had a suspicion he knew the carpenter.

He pushed open the screen door, letting it slam behind him. It was better that America wasn't startled by him. People as dangerous as them were best not to startle.

The little house was tight on the inside, and minimalistic. It didn't have much to it. England set his case down inside the door and wound around a corner to the kitchen, as it was the source of the music (the radio and America's own mellow vocal accompaniment). America sat in a chair with his back to him, a glass of lemonade on the table by him, and as the air hit England, he realized America was baking. It smelled like cinnamon. Coffee cake perhaps?

The rest of the house was cooler than outside, but the kitchen was hot from the oven, and America wore cut off shorts and a simply undershirt.

"Good of you to drop by. Cake's almost done." America said, without turning around.

America was in a mood, he could already tell. He walked over, placed a hand on America's head, and kissed the crown of his head. And then he saw America smile, only a little, but it was still there.

England plopped himself down in a seat, the chair closest to America. He saw there was a book also on the table and a newspaper. America wasn't really looking at him, rather staring idly at the oven.

"Keeping yourself busy I see?"

"Yeah." America answered, tone still flat. They were quiet for another moment before America broke the silence.

"How'd you get here?"

England scoffed.

"On a bloody bus, no thanks you to, for leaving off to here without so much as a word to me, I had to phone Canada, for heaven's sake-"

"Yeah, yeah. I know. Lemonade?" America asked, rising from his chair.

England huffed; only America would be so inconsiderate about something, and then be considerate in some other way in the same sentence. Infuriating.

"At any rate. You did invite me, and next time I would appreciate if you might wait until I arrived before running off, hm?" he said. He knew America wouldn't really listen to his admonishments, but he had to do it for his own dignity.

America grunted noncommittally and poured him lemonade.

That night as then went up to bed, America's bed, and a bed they would be sharing, it started to rain. They lay beside each other, America mostly asleep and England lost to his thoughts, and wading through his own exhaustion, half awake and half dreaming.

As the rain began on the tin roof over their heads, he was swept up by a replaying memory.

_America, 1729_

_He stood from his desk, papers strewn across him, and looked down at them before sighing and running a hand through his already messy hair. _

_Looking outside, he realized it was dark. Why hadn't America come home yet? _

_America had been playing more with local children, as he became more aware and connected with his people. It was a tricky thing for a colony to be too close to their people, but England knew that some growth in this area was healthy, so he allowed it. _

_But America knew to be home before dark. _

_Looking out the window, England observed why the dark had fallen sooner than usual. Thick, churning clouds boiled in the sky, dark and imminent. The wind ripped through the leaves and stirred the tree tops._

_And America was not home yet. _

_He walked briskly for the back door, throwing it open. Immediately he was being pulled at by the wind, and he could feel the air heavy with the brewing storm. _

"_America!" he yelled. There were no humans close enough to where he would seem a fool for screaming that from the back door of his house, and so he yelled one more. Nothing came of it, regardless. "Where on earth is that child?" he muttered, while leaving off in search. _

_The wind was picking up, and thunder was rolling deep and heavy in the distance. It wouldn't be long now. _

_Where did the children play? Where were they most often? The fields, the forest or the town's center. But surely America would have seen the clouds coming and known to come homewards?_

_A gnawing worry settled within him. What if he didn't find him in time? What if he was lost? England cursed under his breath and ran into the forest behind their house, and yelled for America once more. _

_ Thunder rolled closer this time, and he could feel the air becoming heavier. A few fat drops of rain began to fall. _

_ "America! America! Where are you?" he yelled as he ran. _

_ He began to become frantic as the rain fell heavy through the tree tops, and the forest became murkier. Suddenly, the forest was lit brilliantly with the flash of lighting, and then was plunged back into darkness. _

_ England wasn't certain he could run and faster. _

_ "America! America!" he yelled as he ran. Then a tremendous thunder bolt clapped close over head, and England heard a scream. It was distant, but he heard it. _

_ He was shrieking America's name by then. He heard another scream on the next boom of thunder, and ran towards the noise. _

_ "England!" he heard a cry, and made for the sound. "England! I'm here, I'm here!"_

_ And there he was, crouched beside a fallen tree, trying to hide beneath it. He was weeping, and had his knees drawn close to him, and looked wet and absolutely devastatingly pathetic, but when he saw England he launched forward to him. England caught him, and held him close while America's body was wracked with sobs. _

_ "I'm scared!" he cried softly into England's shirt. "I got lost, I didn't know how to get home."_

_ "I know lad, I'm here now, let's go home." He scooped America up, and began to wind his way back down the forest trail, while rain pelted down around them, and thunder shook the air. America cried softly into his shoulder, and jumped when there was a large crack of thunder or a flash of lightning. _

_ Finally England broke through the trees, and scrambled to the house. He let America down as he wrenched the door open, and they both flew inside. They stood inside the door, both panting. England pulled America to him once more, and rocked him gently until his shaking subsided. _

_ "Let's off with these clothes America, or we shall catch our deaths." And then pulled them off as they ascended the stairs, going to their rooms. Even from his room, he could hear America's occasional muffled sob. _

_ Once he had dawned dry clothes, he went to America's room, collected him, and helped him dress. They got into England's bed, and pulled the covers close. England realized only then that the knot of fear in his chest began to dissipate and his own shaking had slowly stopped. Why had he been so scared? Tears slowly fell from his eyes as he realized. _

_ America lay curled in on himself, his head nestled against England's side. _

_ How many years had he lived without fear, without being cowed by anything, staring any advisory in the face, and allowing his pride to drive him? _

_ No, for many years he had not known fear. A mother, one of his people, had once told him she had not known fear until she had children. _

_ A colony was supposed to be an act of conquest, strategically an advantage in trade and resources, a tool for a means of greatness to its empire. _

_ Where they supposed to teach fear? _

_ Why was it that the first time he felt fear in decades was because of a child, small and supposedly insignificant. And yet, he had known terror that afternoon, he had known a fear of loss. _

_ He looked down at the child now asleep at his side, and felt a twinge of a different kind of fear. It was a fear for the power that child unknowingly had. _

_ He knew it would be disaster for him one day. _

_ And decades later, and he looked down a flintlock musket, he met his undoing. _

He awoke with a start, to the rain pouring down on the roof. The room was dark, but his eyes adjusted. America sat up in bed next to him, looking at him with soft eyes.

England met his gaze silently.

"You were dreaming." America murmured. England nodded in answer, although it hadn't been a question.

"Were you dreaming of me?" asked America, still hushed.

England was mildly surprised at the dead on guess.

"How did you know?"

"You were crying." America said, he own voice almost cracking. England started, and brought a hand to his face. Sure enough, tears were streaked across it. He wiped at them hurriedly, but knew damage done when he saw it.

He didn't know what to say, so he said nothing at all. America slowly reached forwards, and brushed a thumb across his cheek, catching a tear.

"What did you dream?" he asked, settling back against his pillow.

England sighed, unsure of what to say. Much of his feelings about America he was loath to speak about, much less to America himself. Especially the fear he knew from love, to admit to such a thing was crippling. He didn't know how to tell him, not when all that love had been thrown away and the fear thrown in his own face.

"When you were a child, and were lost in the rain. Do you remember?" America looked at him, but didn't respond so he continued. "You had been playing with the other children, and as the storm came and it got dark, you got lost in the woods. I believe a fear of the thunder and lightning kept you from moving once it started, and you hid beside a tree. I came out and found you, then carried you home. You cried until you were exhausted and we slept in my bed that night. Do you remember it?"

America looked as sad as England then, and he nodded.

"I remember it. You cried then too."

England looked away. America, matured to this age, must be able to imagine his fear even if he could never know the full extent of it. And he must have known, from his own memory of the event, that England had also been scared, but not of the storm.

"Yes. I cried too." He whispered his admittance, as if hoping it would make its truth less real.

America nodded then looked at him appraisingly.

"But you've never been scared of a storm, have you, England." It was not a question. "No, I think it takes more than a storm to frighten you." The look of knowing on his face was enough to make England want to slap it off. America would never fully appreciate what he had done, the horror he created. Unable to do anything else, England rose from the bed, without so much as a backwards glance.

He went out on the porch, and sat in one of America's roughly hewn chairs, to watch the rain drive into the ground as it waved by in sheets. He breathed deep the earthy smell of water bringing dry soil to life and sought peace in its familiarity.

He heard the screen door bang shut, and America sat in the chair beside his. After maintaining his silence for a few minutes, he spoke.

"If you think I didn't also learn fear from you, you're wrong."

England felt a jolt through him at his words.

"Every time you left me alone, every time you did what you were told by Parliament and George instead of what you _knew_ you should do, I learned fear. My fear of losing you killed me, because I knew that when it happened, it would have to be my job, and you would never forgive me for it. We both have learned to sleep with what we have done. Don't cry anymore."

And with that, America returned into the house.

England sat with those words, in mild wonder.

It should be no mystery why in this last century they had gone from being ambivalent towards each other to being what they had become. Through trenches and bombings, through blood and loss they had been forced to come together. And now, in the post war world, they clung to each other. And so while it might seem odd to some, on the whole, was it any mystery they had been drawn together? Looking at what they had been through, it seemed more like inevitability. Perhaps this was they fate that had awaited them ever since they had loved each other centuries ago.

And they could love each other now.

England stood and came back into the house, to find America face down on the bed.

_No more fear,_ he thought, _there is plenty in this world to fear, but this is not it. _

"America," he said, as he sat on the bed next to him, and laid a hand on his back, "I love you."

* * *

><p>Thank you so much for reading! Please let me know what you think, I appreciate it no matter what! I am still really unsure about these, and any feedback could be used here...<p>

Also, fun facts, on the eve of revolution in colonial America, there were people in Britain who tried to sympathize, and support them. Even the Prime Minister at the time said that Parliament was making Britain treat America unfairly. He gave a speech in the House of Commons asking them to treat America with respect. So cool.


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